perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised

it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******* sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
                                      =============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing  a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…

at first glance:
a lantern catching the outline of a face.

on the last vigil:
the same lantern guttering at the threshold.

it's always:
the act of seeing, which
keeps the world from vanishing.


.

a lantern catching
the outline of a face.

the same lantern
guttering at the threshold.

the act of seeing, which
keeps the world from vanishing.


.

.

"what was the Maltese Falcon?" the boy asks.

his father replies, "The stuff that dreams are made of."


the world is loud:
sirens,
headlines,
grief, love, fear,
heartbreak and flames.

life is a rat race
and the rats are winning

so throw confetti at the funeral.

we name our ghosts
and call them love.
we chase the falcon
of black painted lead,
light candles in an empty room
and call it faith.

where do we go from here?

walk against the parade
through costumes,
floats and marching bands?

the night runs through us all
while the world politely burns.

we call it sanity...this quiet compliance.

but clarity assumes rebellion.
take the straight line
through the storm.

throw confetti at our funeral.
(sadness wears confetti, well.)


every moment the soul screams
we tread closer to the razor's edge.

the leafless tree branches.
clouds drift in the pale sky
and the deer leave footprints
in the snow

and all flowers fade,
so, throw the dead flowers
across my grave

and with time
winter's wounds will heal
so spring can follow
when the river sheds its skin of ice
and the deer footprints turn to mud

and the earth forgets the cold.
sunlight kisses, the flowers sigh,
tulips bruised red,
for-get-me nots whisper,
daffodils linger.

the sunrise whispers anew
and trembling in sunlight
the green leaves wave

as the wind dances with newborn flowers
that for tell of the Grace.

O, my wild garden.

the leafless tree branches.
clouds drift in the pale sky
and the deer leave footprints
in the snow

and all flowers fade,
so, throw the dead flowers
across my grave

and with time
winter's wounds will heal
so spring can follow
when the river sheds its skin of ice
and the deer footprints turn to mud

and the earth forgets the cold.
sunlight kisses, the flowers sigh,
tulips bruised red,
for-get-me nots whisper,
daffodils linger.

the sunrise whispers anew
and trembling in sunlight
the green leaves wave

as the wind dances with newborn flowers
that for tell of the Grace.

O, my wild garden.

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.

are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller

and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones

and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.

the sky weeps white.

but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.


...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)